


An Agency Christmas

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Denmark Street musings [40]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Party, F/M, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:47:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28184892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Strike takes a moment out of the agency Christmas party to reflect on how the business has grown.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Series: Denmark Street musings [40]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1035698
Comments: 27
Kudos: 75





	An Agency Christmas

Strike stood on the street outside the restaurant, smoking his cigarette, watching Robin and the rest of the team through the huge glass window and feeling really rather good about life. His stomach was full of good food and surprisingly well-kept beer, along with a shot or two of whisky. The evening had gone well.

It had been Robin’s idea to hold an office Christmas party. Strike couldn’t see the point, but he was glad now that they’d done it. It had been quite the challenge in the job they did to have everyone free at the same time; Pat had had to do some rota-juggling to free them all on this random weekday night, and had struggled to find a place with the availability for a Christmas meal booked so late - most venues were booked months in advance. Luckily there were only the six of them, although both Wardle and Vanessa had promised to try to call in for a drink some point. Pat had eventually found a pub that had somewhat grudgingly agreed to squeeze them in. Despite his grumbling, which he had only really kept up because he felt it was expected of him, Strike had been surprised to find himself looking forward to the evening, and now here they all were.

Strike drew on his cigarette again and regarded Robin through the large window, sat at one end of their table chatting animatedly to Michelle Greenstreet, their newest hire. Robin had changed into a black sequinned top for the evening, shedding her cream work blouse in their office after shooing him out with instructions to get ready; he’d gone upstairs to his flat to change his shoes and fetch his spare cigarettes rather than linger in the outer office where his treacherous mind wanted to hover around the idea of her in just a bra in their shared space. The new top hugged her curves and nipped in at the waist, only just meeting the top of her pencil skirt and leaving the suggestion that a sliver of skin might be viewable at some point. He’d tried very hard not to look. The wafts of fresh Narciso that swirled around her didn’t really help him to keep his mind on the prosaic.

Looking at her now, though, animated, her cheeks a little flushed from wine and good food, he took a moment to remember the Temporary Solution who had arrived unwanted in his office over four years ago now. She’d been a stranger then, the latest in a string of secretaries who had all been terrible, and who he hadn’t been able to afford anyway. He’d called her Sandra, purely because it was the name of her predecessor, and it had taken days for her presence to register as anything other than an annoyance, mired as he was in misery, debt and the horror of the unstoppable downhill spiral of his life and his imminent ruin. He’d had no roof over his head, a failing business, a shattered relationship and a crippling overdraft.

Somehow, she’d persuaded him to let her stay to the end of a case she’d helped him solve, and then he’d taken her on as a permanent secretary, woefully underpaid. Slowly they had clawed the business out of near insolvency, and as they did so, his new employee and then partner had developed an incredible natural aptitude for the job, a resourcefulness and tenacity that her girl-next-door image belied, an ability to charm witnesses and inveigle information that far surpassed his own. And so now here they were four years later, equal partners in a business that was thriving, an achievement he was proud of like nothing else in his life.

At the other end of the table, Barclay and Hutchins chatted, with Pat idly listening in. Strike’s gaze turned fondly to them. Hutchins had been a good hire; quiet, with useful contacts, and solidly reliable when his health allowed. His skill more than made up for the times his multiple sclerosis took him out of action and they needed to rejig things. The situation suited all parties involved.

Barclay had been a risk, he’d known that at the time, but Strike’s instinct about people had been correct again. Barclay enjoyed the job and worked hard, uncomplaining at odd hours, and totally professional at all times. Anyone looking at his history of odd jobs and drug use might have shied away from offering him a position, but Strike had been sure the dedicated squaddie was still in there somewhere, and had not been proved wrong. Barclay was useful for sending in on drugs cases too; no need for pretence or play-acting, he knew his stuff.

On the edge of their conversation sat Pat, and Strike was amused but not surprised to feel a vague wash of fondness for their secretary and office manager. He’d not liked her initially - well, he’d liked the efficiency, he’d liked the way everything got done on time and just the way he wanted it, the way she managed the rotas and encrypted client files and seemed to have an innate understanding of how to organise a team of people and keep the admin up to date. He’d appreciated that the milk never ran out and the biscuit tin was always stocked. But he and Pat had antagonised one another. Strike hadn’t realised how often his other colleagues, Robin in particular, allowed and excused his moodiness and habitual taciturn nature until Pat flatly refused to indulge him on it, snapping back at him when he was curt with her and pointedly mentioning it if he forgot to thank her. He’d spent most of her first year in their employment feeling beleaguered and somewhat called out, but lately he’d been making an effort and the results were well worth it.

Still, it was with a pang of something akin to trepidation that he’d found himself seated next to her tonight; expecting to have to make polite small talk and watch his tongue, he’d found himself instead discovering she had a wicked sense of humour and a liking for a good quality Scotch, meaning he’d bought her two already. Her rasping chuckle made him grin, and the fond looks he was getting from Robin gave him a warm glow even whilst he was mildly suspicious she’d engineered him sitting next to their secretary, although there had been no table plan, there only being the six of them.

He wondered if Robin had made sure she herself was sitting next to Michelle. Strike watched them again now, Robin listening to something their new hire was telling her, her red-gold head bobbing in agreement. Michelle was younger than anyone else in the agency except Robin - the two were similar in age - and had been a welcome new addition after Saul Morris had been sacked. Strike was properly understanding, now, how important group dynamic was to the smooth functioning of the team. Morris had seemed to rub everyone up the wrong way; Michelle had fitted in smoothly and was striking up quite the friendship with Robin. There was a time when Strike might have preferred to hire another man, someone about whom he wouldn’t have to worry so much on stakeouts, someone he wouldn’t feel such a sense of responsibility for around the more dangerous aspects of their job, but Robin had spent years proving to him that there were things a woman could do better, more easily, than a man - people trusted women more, feared them less. It was what it was, and it made another woman hire sensible.

It occurred to Strike, watching them all now, that the agency was now fifty-fifty again, as it hadn’t been since it was just him and Robin. Three men, three women. He liked the symmetry. Robin was speaking up for herself more in meetings now, and Strike wondered at times if that was because Morris was gone, or because they had a new woman on the team, or maybe simply because of her steadily growing confidence in herself and her abilities. Probably all of the above.

He eyed his partner again as he finished his cigarette, the cold breeze sending goosebumps down his neck. It was mercifully not wet, but mid December had brought a cold snap to London. For the first time this year, Strike was beginning to feel Christmassy, to actually feel a fondness for the bustle of a winter evening in London, the Christmas decorations, the lights strung across streets, the tinny music spilling out of shop doorways.

Robin seemed to feel his gaze on her and looked up; she gave him a soft smile, and Strike grinned back and dropped his finished cigarette into the gutter. Time to go back in. His partner was on his mind as he moved back to the door, and he saw her get up and come to greet him. He wondered if he had changed in the last four years as much as she had. It was hard to remember her now as a secretary, a meek fiancée to Matthew, placing him at the centre of her world and looking for a job he’d approve of. She’d discovered her aptitude for detection at Strike’s agency, discovered her inner resolve, her fierceness, her independence. Was it patronising to feel so proud of her?

Strike shouldered his way in at the pub and Robin came to greet him.

“All right, Sandra?” he said, and she rolled her eyes and grinned at him.

“You got the company credit card? Let’s buy another round.”

Strike chuckled. “You trying to bankrupt us?”

“One more won’t hurt,” Robin replied. “We can pay the food bill while we’re there.”

Strike nodded and they moved to the bar; waiting to be served, they both turned to look at their team. Barclay was fiddling with his vaping device; he’d been sneaking out of a back door for the odd toke. Michelle had shuffled down next to Pat and was making polite conversation with her and Hutchins.

“Look what you built, Strike,” Robin said warmly, following his train of thought as always.

“What _we_ built,” he corrected her, grinning down at her. “It was just me in a disaster before you came along.”

“Well, I’ll drink to that,” she replied. “When I get a drink.”

Strike chuckled, and looked at their team again.

“We done good, Ellacott,” he said quietly, turning back to the bar to try to attract the attention of a member of staff.

“We did,” she replied, and for a moment she leaned in to him, pressing her upper arm against his, and they smiled together.


End file.
